A Christmas Carol
In a world where knowledge has been brought to a whole new level, where, by a simple touch of the canonised thumb, you can order whatever you may possibly not need by apps, the good old nights in front of the telly are no longer a peaceful, stress-free deliverance.
You settle in front of the computer (nobody has a TV anymore), a glass of that white wine you ordered online, wrapped in a blanket, and press play. But no sooner have you done so that Angry birds are nibbling your earlobes, while another bird – a seemingly less aggressive one – is constantly tweeting nonsense. There’s your phone – pretentiously calling himself “i” - grinding against your thigh; your flatmate, with his googly eyes, nervously facebooking in the next room, and your space becomes his space which in turns can become myspace. All the while, you’re desperately trying to enjoy your illegally downloaded blockbuster (the prequel of something) on a laptop that keeps telling you that a high school friend from primary school is skyping you. Enraged, you turn the damn thing off, you close your flatmate’s door, you bury the phone under your duvet and you try to breathe. For a mere second, you are at peace.
Suddenly, you remember that the last time you were out of touch for more than half a minute: you’d missed the announcement of the death of Amy Winehouse and had to be told verbally (!) in a bar (!) by a friend you actually knew (!). You switch everything back on with anguish. You have 5 new messages on Facebook, countless tweets, emails by the dozen, someone important you’ve never heard of before died, there is a revolution somewhere, the crisis has got worse, the end of the world is looming. You crash on your Ikea armchair (€24.99), grab hold of your Ikea cushion (€9.99) and burdened by despair, start weeping.
Your eyes wander around the room, the bookshelf (singular) is empty, now being replaced by a Kindle containing more books that you’ll ever read; your living room looks like page 278 of the Ikea catalogue; your clothes like the last season window display at H&M. You light a Marlboro – nicotine helps.
You can’t quite remember when was the last time you actually sat down and did nothing! The last time you naively looked outside your window and wondered where all these people were going. Your mind, free of constant bombardment of news and images, slowly settles into a deep trance of quiet surrendering. You close your eyes. But as the saying goes, there is no rest for the wicked and your phone starts beeping again – some urgent smiley face a friend left on a comment you made three weeks ago. It’s all but too much.
You put on your coat, take your keys (just your keys) and leave your flat. You rummage through the streets of Madrid, in search of an open sauna that would give you your fix of human touch, of actual human connection even if only for a quick shag. You find one. You get in. The place is empty. The few patrons there are hooked on their phone. You sigh. It is Christmas Eve.
